Can They Smell It or Something?
by Feather Ice
Summary: If Merlin gets kidnapped by that overgrown, sorry excuse for a newt ONE MORE TIME, Arthur is going to have to kill something in a way that really won't be sanctioned at all by his duties as heir to the realm. Just think; all this could have been avoided if Merlin wasn't such a girl and if Gwaine didn't exist. Because somehow, this is definitely Gwaine's fault. Slash.


**Warnings**: Violence, foul language, angst. Humor (_later_ on, so if humor in a partly-angsty story makes you grind your teeth, feel free to shove off). My messing about with the canon!verse (again, this chapter explains the nature of my screwing around pretty well). It will be slightly racy (as in, talk of sexual situations) in parts. And it is, oh my God, SLASH. Thou shalt deal with it or hie away.

**Pairings**: Arthur x Merlin; Gwaine x Merlin; Lancelot x Gwen. Again, if you're not cool with it, go away.

**Can They Smell It or Something?**

0o0o0

**Chapter One: Hungry Like the Dragon**

"MERLIN, GET DOWN!"

Arthur is shouting against the clamor of pitched battle—his voice miraculously carrying above it—and for good measure he waves his arm overhead. There's a flash of wide blue eyes and Merlin drops to the forest floor, vanishing from sight. Talons each as thick as the body of a horse whistle by, snapping closed in a bare miss. Arthur swears, throws aside his crossbow, and lopes through the smoke and flames until he sees a glimmer of chainmail. He grabs and throws his whole shoulder into hauling until Merlin is on his feet and protesting things that Arthur doesn't have the time to hear.

"Sorry—tripped—I'm fine—what are you _doing_ over here—"

"GO!" Arthur shouts, and he gives Merlin a shove, spinning around to meet the next sweep of talons. The claws swerve away from the flash of Arthur's sword and Arthur feels the burst of heat before he sees it, sweat springing up beneath his armor. He spins around as quickly as he can and sees Merlin stumbling away from a wall of fire—no sword as usual; the idiot never manages to keep his sword—and Arthur's idiot turns, tilting his head skyward to display the expanse of his throat, lividly white where it isn't smeared with soot and earth. Defenseless.

Arthur screams Merlin's name, hoping that it will prompt him to do _something_ even if Arthur has no idea what he could possibly do with a massive dragon bearing down on him. The beast is going to tear Merlin in half. Arthur runs even though he can't possibly make it.

He doesn't.

The talons close around Merlin almost delicately, sweeping him up off of the earth like a speck of dust. Light glares off of Merlin's armor, blinding Arthur, and he doesn't have any further impression of his lunatic best friend. There's blast of wind that bowls Arthur over and a triumphant snarl from the sky. Arthur lands on his back and by the time he scrambles to his feet, they're gone and there's nothing but smoke in their wake.

Merlin has only been a knight for two weeks. He's only been in Camelot a month longer, but it feels like he's always been at Arthur's side. Arthur feels like he's bleeding out.

Leon catches him. He shouts too, apparently preoccupied with the fact that Arthur's hurt. It's a scratch; Arthur's legs try to fold under him for entirely different reasons. He seems to have spent all his breath screaming in vain for Merlin to get down, because his lungs just won't fill.

The dragon had blasted straight through their defensive formation, scattered them, and then been on Merlin with the single-minded efficiency of a predator that had spotted the wounded or the frail. Merlin was neither. But Arthur had caught a gleam of mad, cold intelligence in the monster's eye. It was no accident. It had _looked_ at him before it took Merlin.

_Do you see me, Arthur Pendragon? I am going to destroy everything you hold dear. And you will watch._

_Magic_, Arthur thinks as his sight dims. _Nothing is more evil._ Inadvertently, _Merlin_. He's overwhelmed the most ridiculous (precious) memories; Merlin throwing a dagger at his head when they first met, a shared basket of sour apples and calming silence on Ygraine Pendragon's birthday, icy toes batting his foot during the tense insomnia before their latest quest_—"But it's a dragon! Aren't you excited?"_

"_No, I want to go to sleep, you overgrown child."_

"_Fine. See if I wake you up for breakfast then, Your Majesty."_

"_Shut up, and go to sleep, Merlin." (As he smiles and falls asleep instantly.)_

Arthur takes a deep breath and shoves Leon away, planting his feet solidly. There is some kind of gaping, empty hole in him, but he can't mind it. _There is no time, Arthur Pendragon; you are a leader. Do your duty._ He calls for the knights to regroup.

Among his contingency of knights, twelve are badly wounded and two are dead. A third is presumed dead (_Merlin_, and Arthur tries to stop it echoing in his head, but fails). They have confirmed the rampaging beast to be a dragon. They must inform the king.

Arthur gives the order and the detachment rides for Camelot. The silence is excruciating in its permanence. There is a riderless horse galloping just behind Arthur. In place of the irreverent chatter that makes Arthur roll his eyes, he's carrying the sword Merlin dropped. The hilt is melted, so Arthur can't even get a good grip on it.

"There is a dragon." When informed of this, Arthur's father closes his eyes as if it's the worst possible news. Arthur wants to grab his father and shake him. But it's the dragon's fault—it's damnable magic to blame, like it always is. Magic has taken Arthur's mother, and now it has taken Merlin, the only person who stopped Arthur feeling like the weight on his shoulders was grinding him to dust.

The air in his lungs itches, and he keeps clearing his throat. It tastes like ash. "We managed to drive the beast off, with minor wounds and…" Arthur's eyes close now. "…And some casualties. But it will likely return."

"We will summon the knights of the realm," Uther says. "This problem will be dealt with."

"Yes, Father," Arthur says, mechanically. He turns to go. He finds that Gwaine and Lancelot have followed him into the council chambers. He refuses to meet their gazes. If there's sympathy in them, Arthur is going to be sick on the castle floor.

Something nasty in Arthur's head whispers that maybe he would find blame in his men's eyes instead.

After kicking Cedric out of his chambers, Arthur seizes the first breakable thing he sees; he needs to tears something apart more than he needs food or drink. The bowl shakes from his grip and Arthur doesn't realize that he's set it down again until he sinks into his chair, staring at his hands.

They are clean. You cannot go before the king of the realm without clean hands, feet, and face, at minimum. God, though, Arthur wants there to be blood on them. Blood should be dripping from his fingers, because Arthur should have been there, should have witnessed it all, fought for him, held him as he died.

Better yet, the dragon's blood.

Arthur trembles again. Something dark coils inside of the hole he does not have the courage (the duty) to address. In place of Merlin, he wants to carve the monster into the tiniest slivers and burn them all as it still breathes. He wants it screaming. He wants it in _agony_.

He wants Merlin to peek through the door with his awkward, I Am in So Much Trouble laugh. He wants this to be a mistake—he wants to be furious with Merlin for months, wants to double his training until Merlin starts glaring every time Arthur gets within a foot of him—he wants the two of them to be lounged on the chairs in his room, sniping back and forth and laughing. He wants to go to the tavern with Merlin, which is proof that Arthur is losing his mind, because Merlin is the most obnoxious drunk ever born.

Just thinking about Merlin makes the darkness recede. Arthur's hands unfurl from their fists and rest against his knees. His head bows.

Most of all, he wants his duty, the same one that made him ride for Camelot instead of chasing a monster for the sake of one knight (_friend_), to not feel wrong.

After a while, Arthur's shoulders stop shaking. He is his father's son and he does not cry.

And that's it—Prince Arthur has officially completed all his duties for the day and Arthur The Human Being (a certain upstart knight's words) has some duties of his own to see to. He gathers his sword, crossbow, a decent knife, and a torch. He takes his best horse. He personally stands over Cedric, glowering, as his manservant repairs his chain mail double time. And then he rides for the city gates, leaving his father under the impression that he's going for a last-minute hunting trip.

That doesn't prevent three of his best men from gathering at the city gates to cut him off. Arthur wheels his horse frantically, trying to slip past, but there's Lancelot (arm in a splint, so at least he's been to see Gaius) shouldering him back towards Gwaine (who curses; he nearly drops his reins because he's holding another knight's horse). Percival hems Arthur in, head grotesquely covered in bandages from burns Arthur hopes will heal well. His good eye looks solemnly back at Arthur as if Arthur has done something preposterous. And, God help him, that's Leon riding up. Leon who would never, ever condone doing anything without express permission of the king.

Arthur draws his sword. "Out of my way," he says calmly. At least, he means for it to be calm. It comes out as a sort of snarl that makes Gwaine hold up his hands, a tight grin on his face.

"Take it easy, would you? We're here to help." This is the sort of thing Gwaine says to get the jump on someone in a brawl and put his fist through their teeth. Arthur decides that, whether or not he wins the fight they're about to get into, Gwaine will feel it in the morning.

"Arthur, he's our friend too." Lancelot. Arthur's eyes dart over to him, struck again by the earnestness that defines his knight. "We at least want… If we can… To recover his…" Arthur feels slightly ill. Lancelot can't seem to finish the sentence either. He holds Arthur's gaze pleadingly.

"No," Percival announces, "He's going to be alive."

"Come on, lads; he's _Merlin_," Gwaine agrees. Arthur's breath leaves him in a rush and his sword sags in midair.

"Leon?" He looks over at his father's most trusted knight. Leon smiles tiredly.

"I will follow you, Sire, wherever you go. I know you will not be stopped."

Arthur looks around the group again and conceals the fact that _now_ his eyes are watering by sheathing his sword and shuffling his grip on the reins. "Right," he says, once he can do so without croaking. "The villagers were clear enough on which mountain it was. Our primary objective is to recover Merlin and get him to safety."

_Because he will __**need**__ safety. Because he will be alive, _please_ Merlin, just hang on—_

They ride.

0o0o0

**A/N:** Yyyep. So guess what? Merlin's a knight in this! How's that one going to work out, do you think? I mean, if he's even still alive. Because you totally don't know that. I'm not giving anything away at all. (I'm so damn convincing!) Anywho, you like? It's my first time trying to write a half-decent battle scene. Dunno how that worked out. I'd appreciate it if you gave me some hints!


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